


Turning the Tides

by TipsyArchivist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: JonMartin coma angst, Lonely-fication, M/M, Martin fucks his boss to CopeTM, Oops! All Trans!, PWP, Trans Male Character, Unhealthy power dynamics turning on a dime, Web!Martin trutherism, [pornhub font] Lonely Old Timer gets slammed by trans bear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28598028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TipsyArchivist/pseuds/TipsyArchivist
Summary: Dinner and a discussion about how to stop the apocalypse first.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 9
Kudos: 26





	Turning the Tides

**Author's Note:**

> Language used for their anatomy: Cock
> 
> This was a short gift for my partner. Love you, hon <3

Martin lifts the mug to his lips, which twist into a scowl as soon as he finds that a cup he just made is already ice cold. Great. Martin swivels around on his chair to face the emptiness across the room, glaring at the approximate height where Peter’s eyes would be.

“Peter, I know you’re there. I’m not stupid, you know.” 

Peter doesn’t conceal his grin when he makes himself visible. He’s proud of how sincere Martin’s distaste for company has become. 

“So sorry, you looked busy-”

“Because I am.”

“And that is exactly why I planned to leave you to it, uninterrupted.”

“Great job you’ve done so far.” Martin’s tone is unapologetically venomous, but there’s a moment where it stutters in his eyes, and he self-corrects his course into something more concerned.

“How long have you been there?”

Long enough to notice that Martin’s eyes are puffy from crying in the restrooms again. Long enough to watch his hands tremble, shake, curl into fists, and slam into the keyboard until he finally steels himself enough to get up and fetch himself tea. Long enough to know that Martin is doing quite badly at keeping himself together, and it’s no coincidence that it’s Thursday. Martin always visits the archivist in hospital on Thursdays during his lunch hour. Long enough to know he hasn’t spent any of that time to eat and it only makes his shaking worse. Peter’s eyes drift away and he shrugs his shoulders. “Not too long.” 

Martin just sighs and massages the frustration out of his temples.

“So, do you need something, or…?”

“Is it so hard to believe that I was checking in on you out of the goodness of my heart?”

“Yes, actually.”

There’s a small flash of hurt in Peter’s eyes, but as soon as it appears, a coldness replaces it again. His tone is firm and bitterly even, but the attempt to hurt Martin reveals a more childish layer underneath.

“Fine. Consider my invitation to dinner a mandatory meeting now. You seem more tense than usual, I assume from visiting the archivist’s unresponsive husk again, and now you’re pouting because he still isn’t here for you when you think you need him. Distractions like that are a luxury we can’t afford with what’s at stake.”

“So. What, you suddenly care about me being too alone, then? Isn’t that antithetical to your whole… everything?”

“I don’t care that you’re alone, Martin. I care that you’re still seeing him. You’re waiting for him to wake up and save you when he won’t.”

“You’re doing a fantastic job at convincing me you’re any better. You won’t even tell me what’s going on, so some help you are!”

“We can talk about it at dinner. I have to be going now, and you have work you need to be doing. Should I be expecting next week’s schedule on my desk tonight?”

Typical Peter, just show up to poke the bear and then turn and run when it takes a swipe at him. Normally Martin tries to stop him, tries to pull out the thorns he put in and apologize for the mess, but today is different. Today, Martin turns back towards his computer, angrily jabbing each key as he works on another godforsaken spreadsheet. Peter lingers for a few more moments, marveling his handiwork despite the guilt settling on top of his pride. He disappears and leaves Martin blissfully alone.

“I’ll tell you where you’ll find your next schedule.” Martin grumbles to himself.

\---

Martin almost wishes finding Peter would be like a needle in a haystack, but the whole restaurant is empty. It’s cold for such a rustic hole in the wall, and some tables still have half-eaten meals and displaced chairs. People were here. He tries best not to think about where they are now. Martin conceals his fear with a half-convincing glare as he marches up to Peter, who smiles thinly.

“Ah, Martin, it’s so good to-”

“No more games, no more secrets. You’re going to tell me what we’re doing now, or I walk.”

“That’s not how this is going to go.”

“Like hell it’s not. You could have picked anyone to help you. You chose me. Either you tell me why, or we’re done.”

Peter steeples his hands together, covering his mouth somewhat as he leans forward and thinks about his next move. He seems to study Martin for a moment with tired eyes and then finally speaks.

“Do you like seafood, Martin? I didn’t think to ask before picking a place to go. If you’d like we can find something more agreeable.”

Martin scowls at him, there’s far more malice in it than the one he was given a few hours ago. “I don’t care. Are you going to answer me or not?”

Peter shakes his head and then speaks as if urging an unruly schoolboy to behave. “Sit down, Martin. You’ll have everything you need to know in good time.”

“I thought you said we don’t have time-”

Peter begins to talk over Martin, even raising a hand to halt him. “-for distractions, no. For clam chowder, yes.”

Martin angrily drops into his seat, arms crossed. “Fine! Fine. But you had better tell me something about this by tonight, or…” His eyes pinch closed and the freckles on his face roll with the motion. “Or you’re on your own. Got it?”

A waiter silently approaches the table with two steaming bowls. Peter had ordered for him already, probably just to deny Martin even the smallest scrap of interacting with another human being. The server doesn't make eye contact, and slips away without acknowledging either patron. Martin still tries to slip in a ‘thank you’. It feels pointless, but he does it anyway. Peter seems unfazed by Martin’s threat, but very taken with his soup. It’s a new layer of infuriating.

“Understood.” Is all that he offers before perking up with that disgustingly fake chipper act of his, “Now, let’s dig in, shall we?”

\---

They drink. Peter answers with what feels like scraps, but Martin gnaws on their bones and soaks in what information he does get. The two have a strange dance together, of Martin prying for answers and Peter side-stepping it nearly every time. It’s a well-rehearsed waltz, but even then Peter stumbles from time to time, reveals a little too much. Or perhaps just enough to keep stringing Martin along. Either way, Martin feels like he’s being toyed with, and he hates himself just enough tonight that he lets it continue.

\---

Lips crashing together like two seas meeting their edges, pulling and flowing over one another until it's a tidal mess of hungry kisses from starving mouths. Martin will blame the wine, he’ll blame the hole in his heart that just seems to whistle with loss, he’ll blame it on the fact that he’s hoping dragging Peter Lukas to his flat will be the last thing he ever does. He’ll never blame Jon. 

Peter’s beard brushes against Martin’s ear and he says, in a thawed tone Martin has never heard from him before, “He’s not here, but I am.” 

This was the wrong thing to say, and most certainly at the wrong time. Martin stops melting into the wall and baring his neck. He shoves Peter off of him and then grabs him by the hand, a clear warning that he better not leave while he turns around and fumbles to unlock the door with his remaining hand. When it’s finally open, Martin harshly tugs him in, slams the door shut, and then throws his weight against Peter so he's pinned against it. This is as far as Peter is allowed inside. Something like this doesn’t deserve to happen in Martin's bed, it’s enough of an intrusion already. It’s all need and wants, not tenderness or love, just two lonely creatures bouncing off of each other, feeding both the emptiness and yearning.

And, god, Peter relishes the pain that shoots up his spine when it happens, loves the way his brain sloshes in his head so intensely that he’s suddenly forced to submit to whatever Martin sees fit to do to him. Right now, that seems to be biting his neck, claiming him with obvious spots he knows Peter won’t be able to hide without a scarf. Whatever other monsters Lukas has to convene with, avatars with alliances, benefactors for the institute, or bureaucrats, they’ll all see and know that he was with someone. Someone had him and not the other way around. 

Peter can hardly breathe from the way Martin’s body presses against every possible inch of his front. Martin steals kisses at times where Peter tries to surface for air, and Peter decides that drowning wouldn't be so bad after all. The apartment is silent save for the mixture of shaky, ragged breaths and ravenous kisses. There’s no awkwardness in the way Martin shifts Peter around, it’s not for lack of knowing what he wants, but rather that he simply grows bored of using Peter one way and moves on to the next. Finally, Martin pushes his leg in between Peter’s and grabs the man’s hips to hold him steady. Peter grunts from the pleasurable friction, but offers nothing else in terms of vocal encouragement. Either Martin doesn’t care or knows him well enough to not expect much else. If he wanted to leave, he could. He doesn't.

There are other tells that give Peter away. His body shivers each time Martin pulls him down into that leg so he drags down it in such a way that his cock throbs. His hands balled into tight fists at his sides until his knuckles are as white as the door they’re against. The way he grits his teeth and struggles to parse any noise into a muted groan. At some point, he starts to slide himself up and down to try and give Martin the same attention between his legs, but he’s cruel and always pushes into Peter harder, relentlessly pressing into his arousal until all he can do is accept it.

Martin is a furnace. By now, they’re both cooking in their own clothes to a point where it’s unbearable and a hindrance to what they’re trying to achieve. Peter reaches for his belt but Martin beats him to it, unbuckles him and yanks his pants down, kneels and suckles at the wet spot in Peter’s briefs. It’s just not fair, how he’s pressing the curve of his knuckle into Peter’s cock when he isn’t sucking directly on it, refusing Peter even the shortest moment of relief. His hips lock and buck once, then twice, and all at once the too-much of Martin’s closeness and need disappears. He pulls away and growls “Don’t move.”

Peter keeps the fact that he couldn’t do much moving on his own right now even if he wanted to to himself. He spends his time waiting by peeling off the rest of his clothes.

True to his word, Martin returns in less than five minutes, stripped bare, a strap-on bobbing along with his steps. He positions Peter himself, and none too gently. His soft hands dig into the underside of Peter’s thigh, lifting and spreading it until he takes his cue to wrap it around Martin’s waist. Close, close, close. Martin’s breath sears Peter’s neck, and deliriously Peter almost wishes for it to brand him. Martin doesn’t bother with wasting lube on him, simply holds his hand up to Peter’s face and orders him to spit. He spreads it over the dildo in hasty, hefty strokes, then fills Peter almost too much with a long, merciless shove. It’s the first time since this all began that Peter moans, and he gives himself the false promise that it’s the only time that he ever will.

The pace Martin sets is immediately brutal, uncaring of whether or not Peter’s squirming is from pleasure or pain, or perhaps eager for it to be both. The only words that hover around all the groans and wet smacking is the occasional ‘fuck’ and ‘god’ as Martin harshly snaps his hips into Peter’s. It makes all the decorative cat tea cups on a peeling, splintery shelf rattle. Surely this can be heard by the neighbors, but Peter can’t seem to find it in him to care about anything but milking out more of those delicate moans that Martin makes. For someone being so rough and controlling, Martin’s noises are deceptively soft in between sharp inhales and little possessive growls, and they’re more sparse than Peter would like. 

All Peter can manage to do is hang onto Martin for dear life while he so mercilessly fucks that very thing properly out of him. The first time he comes, it’s like surrender. His leg drops a bit and tremulously rubs up and down Martin’s calf as he continues pumping into Peter with no change in rhythm or roughness, not even when Peter finally commits the cardinal sin of wrapping an arm around the back of Martin’s neck and actively pulling him closer, the first major sign that Peter needs this just as much as Martin does.

He doesn’t stop until Peter says his name in a broken, awestruck whisper while cumming for the second time right on Martin’s hand and cock. Finally, he slows down, catches his breath, does not pull away, but pulls back enough that Peter can do the same. Finally, Martin manages to pry Peter off of him, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. He dreads being told to leave, hates himself for how badly he would beg to just let him take care of Martin-- feels the words already forming in his throat like toxic bile that his body so desperately wants to reject.

Martin doesn’t tell him to leave. He wordlessly pushes Peter down until he’s on his knees, and then grips a fistful of his hair so he can guide Peter’s mouth up to the rounded tip of the silicon cock. 

“Suck it clean.” Martin’s voice is sharp and commanding, it’s like he’s not even undone from anything that’s transpired. It makes Peter ache with the need to see him unravel, no matter what it takes.

Peter leans forward as Martin pushes into his mouth, eagerly slurping at his own slick and spit on a toy that makes him gag from the size. Martin watches him intently, knows just when to yank him forward so Peter tenses and struggles to take it all, and then praises him for what a slut he’s turned out to be. This is a new side of Martin. Quiet, jumpy, fearful Martin. Hissing insults and perverse desires as Peter takes him. Tears prick in Peter’s eyes and he loves how he can tell that this makes Martin thrust just that much harder into his throat, deep enough that Peter’s nose presses into lovely, orange pubic hair. The smell is intoxicatingly Martin’s. 

Martin tires of this too, though, and pulls away. Peter curses himself and this enigma of a man that has somehow left him more undone than anyone before, though the competition itself was few and far between. Before he can conceal it, he whines pathetically. Martin yanks at his hair, looking utterly disgusted. He should be. 

“Still not enough, is it? You’re a greedy thing, aren’t you?”

“Ju’s wan to make you feel guh.” Peter slurs, and Martin’s eyes glimmer with sadistic glee. 

“Sorry, I don’t think I heard you right! You'll have to speak up.”

“ _Martin._ ”

“Ask nicely.” Martin grabs Peter's face and forces him to look up. He's not allowed to hide his embarrassment. When he pulls his hand away, Peter is too busy trying to follow it to even notice the small thread connecting his cheek to his fingertips.

He should leave. He should leave now. This is a mistake. He’s trapped right where Martin’s wanted him all along, and it’s blasphemy that he couldn’t be happier anywhere else in that moment.

“Martin, I want to make you cum.” Peter sounds defeated. He almost can’t stand how humiliating it feels to say it. Almost.

“You will.” Martin says matter of factly. He unfastens the strap-on and tosses it to Peter, who fumbles best as he can to get it on. He doesn’t have time to secure it right before Martin is pushing him to the ground. Martin keeps him pinned by the shoulders as he lifts himself up and sinks onto the toy. His face twists into the most beautiful display of bliss that Peter has ever seen. He’s held still as Martin rides him, each time he feels Martin’s ass press against his thighs, he almost wishes he wouldn’t raise back up, but rather press against his body until they’re a ubiquitous mass of contradictions. He easily lies and tells himself that this is lust, and not at all a betrayal to his god, not at all something he very much wants every day of the week, certainly not something that slips into the cracks and fills up all those empty spaces. 

Peter obediently lies down for the most part and lets Martin roll his hips, watches the curve of his stomach fat jiggle from his movements. What he wouldn’t give to lean up and suck on Martin’s nipples or kiss the scars just a few inches lower, to taste him and find that it’s the best flavor he’s indulged in tonight.

Martin is needier like this. His moans shake almost as much as his thighs do, his face becomes flushed and he’s gasping in between saying Peter’s name and babbling any dirty thing he can think of. His head is tipped back and his own hand is carding through his messy curls. Martin is living art as he fucks himself with Peter, and in his first moment of vulnerability, Peter reaches for his hip and holds it more gently than he’ll let himself remember when this is all said and done. The other hand thumbs at Martin’s swollen dick, and god, the way Martin moans so sweetly from the touch makes Peter start pushing up into him without instruction. When Martin comes, it’s like victory when he falls against Peter and gives him more than he could ever want by moaning his name right into his ear. Not long after, both of their bodies still, but do not part.

“So much for no distractions.” Says Martin, laughing breathlessly despite himself. Peter says nothing.

“Except… I guess I did actually learn something important here.”

Peter hums absentmindedly, half-dazed from exertion.

“You need me more than I need you. So if you want to keep me around, you’re going to tell me everything.”

Peter wants to slam his head against the floor over how stubborn Martin is, but finds a part of himself already harboring endearment for it-- for him. This curious man who holds so many interesting surprises. His voice is a shell of his former cheeriness, but he manages to limp back into something somewhat resembling control when he says, “I suppose so. Same time next week, then?”

Martin smiles, and there is no warmth in it.


End file.
